


First Defeat

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:12:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Midorima defeats Aomine</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> Midorima's younger by a year in this universe; just go with it. For aomido week 2k15 day 1: first times

Aomine’s known that this was going to happen long before it does; he’s been waiting and hoping that he gets to see it up close and it’s more than worth it for the moment Shutoku gets possession, Takao passes the ball inbounds to Midorima, and he lights up so bright it feels like Aomine’s looking straight at Venus from ten kilometers outside of its atmosphere but he can’t look away because it’s like fucking magic the way he jumps—Aomine jumps to block too late but even if he’d timed it perfectly it would be useless—Midorima’s incredible wingspan aside, he’s somehow gained ten centimeters on his vertical and the release of the ball is somehow sharper and more certain than the perfectly sharp and absolutely certain than it always is. The ball doesn’t even hit the rim as it goes in from three quarters of the way across the court, and Midorima’s already under the hoop ready to defend.

The expression on his face (it’s something bigger than a real smile) looks like he’s done this before, or at least has come pretty damn close—Aomine’s imagined this but never seen this, never seen anything in the same neighborhood as this.

“How long have you been able to pull this off?” he asks.

“Not long,” says Midorima. 

And then Sakurai’s shooting from almost half-court, trying to outdo Midorima (or at least keep some semblance of pace, a tortoise waddling after a hyperactive hare) and the ball bounces off the rim. Aomine jostles for it (he’s always been able to stuff in offensive rebounds for dunks), fending off Kimura on one side—but Midorima’s on the other side, palm on the ball and pushing harder than Aomine can hold—he knows Midorima’s won even as he tries to stop it.

The hardness in Midorima’s eyes isn’t the zone (Aomine’s seen it, felt it often enough to know what is and isn’t really the zone). It’s something different, perhaps a near-equivalent like Kise’s Perfect Copy or Haizaki’s whatever the hell kind of thing he does, something that has roughly the same game-elevating function but works in a different way. And all this thinking, all this reacting to Midorima’s moves (long after they’re over and he’s gotten the upper hand) is pushing Aomine further onto the edge—and even though he knows they’ve lost already, he plunges in.

* * *

He’s forgotten how tiring the zone is; as soon as he steps into the shower the weight of exhaustion hits him like a blunt instrument to the back of the head and it’s all he can do to listen to Coach talk about what they have and haven’t accomplished this year, pat Ryou on the shoulder until he stops sniffling and glares, and chip in a few words as departing vice captain. Honestly, going out this way isn’t too bad—it’s a respectable way to lose, although Aomine’s not going to point that out (he supposes he’s biased, but Midorima erupting in the fourth quarter and putting a to-that-point close game out of reach seems like the best way to him). 

His teammates file out and he’s still fighting fatigue; Satsuki (bless her) hands him a can of coffee from her bag. 

“You’re going to wait for him?”

“You have to ask?”

Satsuki shrugs.

The coffee is bland, tasting more like the aluminum can than anything else, and it doesn’t seem to be having the desired effect. But the bench outside the locker rooms is too uncomfortable to sleep on, and he’s actually getting a little bit excited waiting for Midorima. He wonders what the hell is taking Shutoku so long—discussing strategy before the next match? Midorima’s usually the first one out; he should be here already, anyway. Aomine rolls his shoulders. He’s going to be so sore tomorrow—worth it, this time, but still. And then the door opens; Aomine leans forward.

Midorima sees him, fingers curling around the edge of the door before letting it fall back against the frame, face flushing almost as dark as it had when they were out on the floor. His hair is still wet from the shower and his team jacket is unbuttoned. Aomine pulls himself up, walking toward him. Midorima takes a few hesitant steps of his own and then they’re a few centimeters away, and Aomine pulls him down for a kiss.

Midorima’s mouth is wet and warm, washing the stale metallic taste from Aomine’s mouth and replacing it with something minty and citrusy and familiarly Midorima; Midorima’s tongue is hesitant at first but quickly matches Aomine’s pace and one of his hands grabs Aomine’s hip. His body is warm and Aomine wants to press it against his own so badly but there are so many reasons not to, like not having the energy to take this much further and overwhelming Midorima that he doesn’t.

They’re both panting when they break the kiss, Aomine’s hand still cupping Midorima’s burning cheek.

“What was that for?” Midorima says through shaking breaths.

Aomine snorts. “Congratulations, Idiot. You did great out there.”

Midorima blinks. “You’re not…mad?”

“Nah,” says Aomine. “There are worse ways to get knocked out. And, you know, I’m proud of you.”

Midorima flushes darker, biting his lip. He looks so fucking cute like this, even when Aomine’s looking up at him, red cheeks and ears against the wet green strands of hair clinging to his scalp, eyes blinking rapidly under Aomine’s gaze. Aomine kisses him again, quickly this time. Midorima’s grip tightens around Aomine’s jacket.

“Thank you,” Midorima says quietly.

“For what?” says Aomine. “I wasn’t waiting, you know.”

“I know,” says Midorima. “But…it means. A lot to me that you’d, uh. Say that.”

Damn, is he oblivious sometimes—and yes, it’s cute, too, but it’s more than a little bit exasperating.

“I’m always proud of you, Babe. I just don’t want you to get a swelled head or anything.”

And at that, Midorima’s lips twist upward like a wrung-out towel. Aomine drops his hand down to Midorima’s hand and squeezes it. This moment’s been a long time coming; it’s even been a pretty long time since Aomine had realized it—but it’s no less worth it, for either of them.


End file.
